Fall From Lace

by Emily Claire

  He shifted closer to her; she stiffened and prepared to flee.

  “Who are your other suspects?” he asked in a low voice. “Sir Charles?”

  “In the Rose Room with Isabella before, during, and after the murder.”

  “Lady Wycliffe?”

  “In the nursery with Charlie,” Lydia said, then frowned. No, that had been a lie. “She was in the library with Mr. Buxton,” she corrected.

  “Which puts Mr. Buxton in the library with her. Miss Diana?”

  “Neither strong nor resolute enough to murder someone with a knitting needle,” Lydia said.

  Although Diana had had plenty of reason to want the curate dead. Perhaps a moment of rage could have lent her the strength.

  Lydia dismissed this with a shake of her head. “Besides, her maid can attest she was dressing for dinner. Apparently, it took some time, as she was hoping to impress Mr. Buxton.”

  “Ah, young love,” he said dryly. “What of Lady Huntington?”

  “Unaccounted for,” she said. “Alone in her room with a book at the time, but she had no reason to hurt the curate. He was at the heart of her charity work, and she felt nothing but regard for him.”

  Of course, Lydia thought, she had assumed the same thing about Diana. She silently made a note to corner the venerable lady later, if she could.

  “That’s everybody, then.”

  “Not the servants,” Lydia said sharply. “You rich people always forget about the servants until it’s time to chastise them.”

  His eyebrows flew up. “We rich people? Is that why you dislike me so?”

  “No, I dislike you for yourself,” she shot back. “Even so, the servants are accounted for. The housekeeper had sent several of the maids to bed earlier in the day, which caused the confusion over the fire in the sitting room and was the reason nobody walked in on Mr. Stewart and his killer.”

  He inched closer. “What do you mean, accounted for? By whom? Can we trust them?”

  We. He dropped it so easily, as if they really were working together. Lydia did not love the idea.

  Nor did she hate it.

  “The constable, housekeeper, and butler spoke to all the servants together,” she said, the words slipping out at a brisk pace. “Mr. Cooper assures me none of them could have killed him. With the staff so short, anyone who wasn’t working to prepare for dinner would have been missed immediately.”

  Of course, Mr. Cooper himself could have slipped away for a moment or two without being questioned. The housekeeper had spent all the early evening helping prepare dinner since the kitchen was short-staffed, but if Mr. Cooper had disappeared, they would have assumed he was decanting the wine or supervising the laying of the table.

  Besides that, he had always been so fond of Diana. If he had noticed how the curate had treated her...

  Lydia made another mental note to look into him later.

  “What?” Mr. Pemberton demanded.

  “What do you mean, what?”

  “What are you thinking? You just had an idea.”

  “Not an idea. A speculation. I’ll tell you if it comes to anything. In the meantime, you’re still the strongest suspect. You had the strength, the opportunity, and a healthy dislike for the curate.”

  He leaned even closer, until he could have reached out and grabbed her by the throat if he had chosen to. Her heart skipped a beat.

  “Why are you so determined to pin this on me?” he asked, very quietly.

  She fought the urge to run—and the urge to lean in closer.

  “I have to be sure I’m not letting your good looks and pleasant manners get in the way of an objective investigation,” she said. “Other women might be fooled by that perfect smile of yours, but I won’t be.”

  That smile appeared on his face almost immediately, full of even teeth and amusement. “You think I’m handsome?”

  He was exultant. Lydia would have none of it.

  “You know you are,” she said severely, rising to her feet. “And your good looks will be neither here nor there if you turn out to be a killer.”

  He grinned up at her. All the suspicion and coldness she had thrown his way, and here he was, delighted that she thought him pleasant looking.

  He really was intolerable.

  “Now I truly will bid you a good day,” she said. “If you are going to poison yourself to prove your innocence, be sure to do it properly next time.”

  He laughed. She curtsied and, without waiting for him to stand and bid her a good morning, marched out of the room and ran directly—and embarrassingly—into Mr. Buxton.

  17

  “Miss Shrewsbury!” he exclaimed, grabbing her by the shoulders to steady her. “Are you all right?”

  “Heavens, I’m sorry.” Lydia flushed and caught her balance. “I wasn’t at all looking where I was going. Are you all right?”

  “Perfectly,” he said. “I hadn’t realized you were here.”

  She gestured back toward the basket. “My mother sent me on parish business to the poor invalid.”

  Behind her, Mr. Pemberton let out a noise that was something like a snort.

  “How kind of her. I’m glad I ran into you—or you into me, rather.” He smiled, the expression reaching all the way to his bright blue eyes. “Miss Wycliffe and Miss Diana have gone into town to buy new music. They planned to call at the vicarage on their way to see if you were inclined to join them. As you are already here, perhaps we might walk into town together?”

  “Of course,” Lydia said. “Are you staying at Hollybrook House now?”

  He chuckled, color rising to his cheeks. “No, indeed, although I wouldn’t turn down the invitation. I came to join the ladies at breakfast. After yesterday’s incident, Diana expressed that she would feel better if I were to accompany her at meals.”

  “Are you capable of defending the lady from poisons?” Mr. Pemberton asked from the morning room.

  “I do not have that skill, I’m afraid.” Mr. Buxton chuckled. “Miss Diana knows as much, but if my presence can aid in comforting her, I would hardly be a gentleman if I did not supply it.”

  Of course, Mr. Buxton’s willingness to hurry to Hollybrook House at all hours of the day was merely out of duty. Lydia pressed her lips together to suppress a laugh.

  “Did you not join the ladies on their walk?” she asked.

  “Sir Charles pulled me into conversation about some scheme to purchase a Spanish vineyard,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I promised the ladies I’d catch up. I stopped in here only to collect the scarf I left behind yesterday.”

  He stepped around Lydia. Mr. Pemberton was already holding up the scarf, which had been resting on the arm of a nearby chair. Mr. Buxton thanked him and wound the knitted cherry-red material around his neck. Lydia recognized the wool; Diana had been working with it not a month past.

  After the violence of the past fortnight, the once-cheerful color wrapped around his throat now seemed like a grim reminder of blood.

  She shuddered. It did seem significant that both murder victims so far had been young, handsome, eligible men. The urge to reach for Mr. Buxton, to protect him, overwhelmed her, and she clasped her hands together to avoid giving in to it.

  Lydia bid Mr. Pemberton farewell again and followed Mr. Buxton to the front hall. Mr. Cooper was nowhere to be seen, but Mr. Buxton helped her with her pelisse and held her bonnet as she did up the buttons on the coat. She tied the dove-colored ribbons firmly under her chin and accepted his arm.

  The morning had warmed, though not by much, and Lydia shivered at the first breeze that hit her outside.

  “This February seems uncommonly cold,” she said. “I don’t recall it being this bitter last year, although I suppose I say the same thing every winter.”

  “It’s not your impression,” he said. “The almanac predicts a cold spring as well, though I hope it’s incorrect. I always find such weather past Christmas to be rather in poor taste. If the chill does not come with the anticipation of h
oliday cheer, whatever is the point?”

  Lydia laughed. “I couldn’t agree more, although I’m usually happy to tolerate bad weather at least through Epiphany.”

  “I tell you who does like cold weather,” Mr. Buxton said in a quieter voice. He came to a halt, still holding firmly to Lydia’s arm so she would stop, too. “Look over there.”

  She looked. It took a moment to figure out what he was talking about, and then she saw it: a flutter of a black wing against a white body, half-obscured by the branches of a bush.

  “It’s only a magpie,” she whispered, glancing up at Mr. Buxton. “A common pest.”

  “Don’t underestimate the creature,” he whispered back. “They’re considered portents of ill omen. In Scotland, they call them the devil’s bird, and in Germany, they believe witches use the form as a disguise.”

  A chill went down Lydia’s back. She tried to blame it on the weather. “I daresay those opinions weren’t formed with the help of science.”

  Mr. Buxton smiled. “No, I don’t think they were. Particularly as superstitions around the bird are so inconsistent. In Norway, they’re considered good luck.”

  “And in my garden, they’re considered troublesome little thieves,” Lydia whispered. “One of them flew off with one of my father’s sleeve buttons last spring.”

  “It knew there was value in the trinket,” Mr. Buxton said. “They’re dreadfully smart. Did you know they have social rituals nearly as complicated as our own? Some people even claim to have observed them holding funerals for their dead.”

  The door opened behind them, and a series of quick, light footsteps crunched the gravel. An instant later, young Charlie bolted past Lydia and Mr. Buxton. The magpie launched itself from the bush with a frantic flutter of wings and flew away, but not before giving one indignant cry.

  Startled, Lydia clutched Mr. Buxton’s arm, then gave way to laughter. “Not smart enough to stay put at the threat of a little boy,” she said as Charlie raced toward the trees in the park, his young governess trotting along behind him.

  “I think that rather a sign of intelligence,” Mr. Buxton said, “having been a young boy myself.”

  They resumed walking.

  “I didn’t know you were such an aficionado of nature,” Lydia said after a moment.

  “Only birds,” Mr. Buxton said. “I find them amusing, and there are plenty of opportunities to observe them here in the country. I’ve set up a variety of bird feeders around my estate and hope to catalogue my sightings in the spring.”

  “What a charming notion.” She hadn’t imagined Mr. Buxton to be the kind of man whose face lit up at a discussion of magpies, and she found the discovery delightful. Diana had chosen well—or would, whenever Mr. Buxton got around to proposing.

  “How is Diana?” she asked after a moment as they passed under the canopy of trees that lined the road through Hollybrook Park. The bare branches rustled above them, and smudged shadows dappled the hard-packed road. “I imagine yesterday troubled her deeply.”

  “As it did all of us,” he said, a frown tightening his jaw. “I sicken at the thought that she might have been the one to reach for that cursed pot of chocolate first. She adores chocolate with her breakfast.”

  “With every meal, I think,” Lydia said, biting back a smile. Diana’s sweet tooth was famous inside their small circle.

  “I confess I arrived earlier than I was invited yesterday to walk the grounds,” Mr. Buxton said. “Diana’s morning constitutional is as regular as clockwork, and I hoped I would run into her.”

  “I’m glad you did,” Lydia said. “I imagine she lingered outside with you, and that may have been the only thing to save her from a fate worse than Mr. Pemberton’s.”

  A shadow crossed Mr. Buxton’s face, and his arm tensed. “I can’t bear the thought of it, Miss Shrewsbury,” he said after a moment, his voice low and fervent. “For someone to risk my beloved’s life in an effort to get at that wag Pemberton? I’ll kill the devil if I ever learn who it was.”

  Lydia placed her free hand on his arm. “I daresay there’s been enough killing. I understand you had some tension with the curate, and it sounds as if your regard for Mr. Pemberton isn’t much greater, but the violence enacted against them has been quite enough already.”

  Mr. Buxton looked down at her, his eyebrows drawn together in concern. “I won’t argue with you about my feelings regarding Pemberton. He’s a gambler with not much substance behind his fine clothes and finer horses. But I had nothing but the highest respect for Mr. Stewart.”

  “Did you?” Lydia asked, frowning. “Lady Huntington said your acquaintanceship was not entirely free of tension.”

  He drew back his head a little, as if to see her better. “She did?” he asked, puzzled.

  “She said Diana had hinted at quite a conflict between you,” Lydia said. She tried to smile, but her memory of Diana’s confession about the curate wouldn’t quite let the expression reach her lips.

  He squinted a little, and his eyes darted from side to side, as if he were searching his memory. “I can’t imagine what she thought she knew,” he said eventually. “Are you certain she was talking about me?”

  “She seemed quite sure.” Lydia shrugged. “Although perhaps she was only inferring things from the interest you and Mr. Stewart shared in Diana.”

  “She was very much mistaken. I admit I didn’t know the fellow well, but Mr. Stewart and I were always on the pleasantest of terms. I admired him greatly.”

  Lydia bit her tongue and searched his face. Her opinions of the curate had changed so drastically in the course of a day. Did she detect a hint of a lie in Mr. Buxton’s face, or was she merely transferring her own sudden resentment toward the curate onto an innocent?

  “Did Diana ever tell you of Mr. Stewart’s… interest… in her?” she asked carefully.

  He nodded, then shook his head a little. “Well, not in so many words, but knew he was fond of her. It was impossible to mistake his interest, and I suspected I might have some competition for her favor.”

  “And that didn’t interfere with your regard for him?”

  His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “No, of course not. If anything, it made me respect him more. I would be more skeptical of any gentleman who didn’t recognize Diana’s charms.”

  She tilted her head. “You weren’t jealous?”

  “I respect Diana,” he said, a soft smile on his lips. “I would have respected her choice, much as it grieved me. Indeed, I might have admired her if she had ignored her mother’s hopes for her and chosen a respectable curate for a husband. I consider myself lucky that she happened to fall in love with me instead.”

  There was no ambivalence in his expression; whether he would have lived up to his noble claims in the end, he believed what he was saying now.

  Which meant Diana couldn’t possibly have told him how Mr. Stewart had treated her.

  Lydia pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. If Diana hadn’t told him the truth, it wasn’t her place to do so. Perhaps that was a secret best taken to Mr. Stewart’s grave.

  “Your suspicions about my opinion of Mr. Pemberton are accurate, however,” Mr. Buxton said after a moment of reflection. He guided Lydia neatly around a mud puddle and out from under the cover of the trees. Away from their shelter, the breeze sharpened and sliced at the back of Lydia’s neck.

  “You dislike the gentleman?”

  “I don’t respect him,” Mr. Buxton said. “I suspect you don’t either, for all your dutiful ministrations this morning.”

  He waited, and after a moment, Lydia gave him the smallest of nods.

  “May I share a suspicion with you?” Mr. Buxton asked, glancing down at her. “And will you tell me if this sounds mad?”

  “Certainly.”

  He hesitated, then lowered his head toward her. “I think Mr. Pemberton may have poisoned himself.”

  Lydia stopped walking and stared up at him. It was astonishing how hearing one’s own suspicions
from someone else’s mouth could lend them such chilling weight.

  “What is your logic?” she demanded, adjusting the collar of her pelisse more tightly around her throat.

  “Only this,” he murmured. “Isn’t it strange that the poisoner knew exactly how much to put into the chocolate so that it would put the victim in bed for a day or two but not cause lasting harm? I don’t know much about poisoning and all that sort of thing, but I find it extraordinary. It must be an exact science to let a thing happen so neatly.”

  “If that’s true, then Diana was never in any danger.”

  “Perhaps not,” he said. “Or perhaps it was merely luck and good timing that Mr. Pemberton was able to reach for his own poisoned chocolate before she returned from her walk.”

  “What reason could he possibly have to poison himself?”

  She knew the answer before he said it. She had accused Mr. Pemberton of the same thing already.

  “He didn’t have the best relationship with the curate,” Mr. Buxton said. “But if a murderer were to strike twice, who would blame one of his victims for either crime?”

  Lydia gaped up at him. Perhaps her own speculations hadn’t been so ridiculous after all.

  “Am I mad?” Mr. Buxton asked quietly.

  Lydia shivered and held his arm more tightly.

  “No,” she said at last. “No, I fear you aren’t mad at all.”

  18

  They met with Isabella and Diana at the vicarage gate. Isabella promptly stole Lydia away from Mr. Buxton, and Mr. Buxton happily exchanged her for Diana, who seemed delighted at the turn of affairs. They spent a pleasant hour at the bookshop rummaging through new pianoforte music before Mr. Buxton excused himself.

  “How in heaven’s name has the man not asked you to marry him yet?” Isabella murmured as the ladies stepped back outside.

  Cold sunlight flooded the street, and the mud puddles glistened like watery chocolate. Lydia frowned at one of them. Strange, for something so sweet and pleasant to have caused so much pain.